tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-51848364104560506112017-12-13T20:35:53.173-07:00Mister Fweem's BlogHere there be monsters. And kids. And a guy who babbles a lot about all sorts of things, including technical communication and rocks that resemble pigs' noses. Remember, you were warned.Mister Fweemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10339287419996343926noreply@blogger.comBlogger3131125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5184836410456050611.post-69333126216674518442017-12-13T20:35:00.002-07:002017-12-13T20:35:53.245-07:00"What Else is On?"<div class="MsoNormal">Remember the triumphant, feel-good ending of The Truman Show, where Truman sails into the wall of the massive television studio that’s been his home and his prison? He talks with Christof, the show’s director/God through the clouds and is unconvinced that remaining in his sheltered life is a good thing.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“In case I don’t see ya,” he says with a grin, “Good afternoon, good evening, and good night!” He then walks through the open door into the darkness, and the audience watching cheers.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Then they ask what else is on.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><center><iframe allow="encrypted-media" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" gesture="media" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/-_zYn-HHcyA" width="560"></iframe></center><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Or at least these guys do. Because to them, The Truman Show was entertaining television – but just that: Entertainment. Show’s over, folks – so what else is on?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jwpf6EKDeTU/WjC2LSmk-6I/AAAAAAAAGdE/q-AYCeLMRQoIJuHpeiOLEsnEPeVgY9ZmACLcBGAs/s1600/what%2Belse%2Bis%2Bon1.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="896" data-original-width="1600" height="223" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jwpf6EKDeTU/WjC2LSmk-6I/AAAAAAAAGdE/q-AYCeLMRQoIJuHpeiOLEsnEPeVgY9ZmACLcBGAs/s400/what%2Belse%2Bis%2Bon1.png" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WF4TYIH_iTA/WjC1mAoBHeI/AAAAAAAAGdA/sU5CL0sfSsEZtLlC7x-aTenNh2dXFhwQQCLcBGAs/s1600/what%2Belse%2Bis%2Bon2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="190" data-original-width="328" height="231" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WF4TYIH_iTA/WjC1mAoBHeI/AAAAAAAAGdA/sU5CL0sfSsEZtLlC7x-aTenNh2dXFhwQQCLcBGAs/s400/what%2Belse%2Bis%2Bon2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I fall into that trap a lot. And I don’t even watch much television.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">We all do it, to a certain point – what wildlife biologist Jeff Higdon calls “five-minute activism” in an article at Slate.com on whether a polar bear photographed by National Geographic is <a href="http://www.slate.com/articles/health_and_science/science/2017/12/the_viral_photo_of_a_starving_polar_bear_might_be_dying_of_cancer_not_climate.html" target="_blank">starving</a> due to climate change or is starving due to the multitude of other reasons animals starve in the wild.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“What I would like to see is people learning more about these issues,” Higdon tells Slate. “It infuriates me, it’s a five-minute activism kind of thing for people. The photo gets thrown around and two days later it’s forgotten about and no one’s behavior has changed.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I see a lot of this. I indulge in some of it – armchair activism, but little else.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Like what’s going on at the FCC re: <a href="https://www.wired.com/story/fcc-net-neutrality-comment-analysis-fake-emails/" target="_blank">Net Neutrality</a>.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I’ve seen the problem – bogus comments, spammed comments, weird comments, bot comments – touted as a problem on the FCC’s part in filtering or managing comments. However – I think a lot of this trouble (and it is trouble) is linked to the kind of idiot Internet behavior that leads us first to believe a photograph of a starving polar bear shows evidence of climate change and then second to forget about said polar bear five minutes later: The Web is entertainment, it’s for trolling, it’s for making a point without technically doing anything about the underlying problem.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The Internet is the quickest way to do something to feel good about having done something, rather than doing something to actually do something. (Want an example of the feel good/do nothing activism? Click on the link to “knowyourmeme.com” in the Wired story linked above. It takes you to this, at least for the next day or so:<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/--ECqn1VVlOI/WjHxZgSUuwI/AAAAAAAAGdU/Y1U1yH0xo2kXyquqMMVxKRHKwZ6eglz6QCLcBGAs/s1600/kym%2BFCC%2BURGENT.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="724" data-original-width="986" height="292" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/--ECqn1VVlOI/WjHxZgSUuwI/AAAAAAAAGdU/Y1U1yH0xo2kXyquqMMVxKRHKwZ6eglz6QCLcBGAs/s400/kym%2BFCC%2BURGENT.PNG" width="400" /></a></div><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Yes, filling in a few info boxes and then shooting off this email makes you feel good about doing something. But what did you actually do? Did you read the letter they suggest the whole way through? Chances are you didn’t, because you don’t have the time because you’ve got to see what’s on next!<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Yes, Internet activism is easy. So easy bots can do it. So easy pro-net neutrality activists can do it. So easy the Russians can game it, and you know they’re gaming it because come on they’re totally gaming it.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">What did I do?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">During the FCC’s first comment period on net neutrality, back in 2014, I told them, in a unique letter, I favored net neutrality because I have cable internet and already see my ability to use the internet on a nightly basis squeezed by poor capacity on the cable provider’s system. I cautioned them that failing to keep the net neutral, my ability to teach classes online – my second gig – would be hampered if suddenly teaching were designated as a second- or third-tier Internet activity.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Then sometime between April 27 and Aug. 30 of this year, I sent them another unique letter – electronically – reiterating my desire to see the net remain neutral.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Mindlessly using any commenting system to send a message to a government entity gives such entities fuel to say, “Hey, the people just don’t care.” Think otherwise? Read <a href="http://www.pewinternet.org/2017/11/29/public-comments-to-the-federal-communications-commission-about-net-neutrality-contain-many-inaccuracies-and-duplicates/?utm_source=AdaptiveMailer&amp;utm_medium=email&amp;utm_campaign=17-11-29%20FCC%20report&amp;org=982&amp;lvl=100&amp;ite=1991&amp;lea=422563&amp;ctr=0&amp;par=1&amp;trk=" target="_blank">this</a>, and look at the table where the top most common names are provided. Nobody is taking any of those messages seriously.</div>Mister Fweemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10339287419996343926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5184836410456050611.post-26908841283827475962017-12-12T09:54:00.000-07:002017-12-12T09:54:00.217-07:00December 12, 2017<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:OfficeDocumentSettings> <o:AllowPNG/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings></xml><![endif]--><br /><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves/> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:DoNotPromoteQF/> <w:LidThemeOther>EN-US</w:LidThemeOther> <w:LidThemeAsian>X-NONE</w:LidThemeAsian> <w:LidThemeComplexScript>X-NONE</w:LidThemeComplexScript> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> 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table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-priority:99; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin-top:0in; mso-para-margin-right:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0in; line-height:115%; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} </style><![endif]-->Ten years.<br /><br /><div class="MsoNormal">Ten years blogging.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Ten years wasting your time and mine.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m writing this post right now during an idle moment at work in late June, so I can’t as of this writing give an official count of the number of posts I’ve published.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Comments, now, tallying comments are easy. Meaningful ones: Less than two dozen, and that’s being charitable. There was for a time I was on the Random Translated from Chinese Comment Bot’s radar, but those moments have long gone.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Purpose? Plenty of that. This blog will be a treasure-trove to my descendants, providing any of them are interested and the Wayback Machine still functions. I haven’t yet decided if I’ll deliver the username and password to this blog to my descendants in my will, out of fear they’d take one look at it and delete the whole thing.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I have also considered using one of those blog-to-book services, however given their inability to capture linked material and to play YouTube videos, their utility seems limited.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Perhaps, of course, I could hand my credentials over to my estate, or the university library or presidential library to which I bequeath my papers.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Or I could just go on babbling since NONE OF THAT IS EVER GOING TO HAPPEN.<br /><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">And to tell the truth, I have blogged before.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I started a blog briefly around a Thanksgiving break some time before 2007, but the effort petered out and I have since lost track of it. It’s in the blogspot/blogger blogosphere somewhere. Perhaps I might look for it. (I’ve tried a few times to search for it, but it’s a tiny needle in an ever-expanding Internet haystack, so I’ve given up finding it. Maybe you’d care to look for it – I recall I began blogging in the 2003-2005 year range at the time I was working at a local newspaper and thus hated writing with a passion.)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">There were also copious amounts of blather posted while I was a university student in the late 1990s. The year 1997 plays prominently in my memory. So this should, by rights, be a 20-year anniversary post.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">But I won’t brag up my credentials. Ten years of consistently bland writing is enough to celebrate, is it not?</div>Mister Fweemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10339287419996343926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5184836410456050611.post-6984816862833350122017-12-11T20:49:00.001-07:002017-12-11T20:49:32.357-07:00"Why, He's a *Licensed* Driver!"<div class="MsoNormal">By the end of the week, our oldest will join the ranks of even the great Lord Morley in becoming a licensed driver.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><center><iframe allow="encrypted-media" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" gesture="media" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/6jbn_kacmk8" width="560"></iframe></center><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Our son took his written test today, and will do the skills test Wednesday. Then sometime after that our insurance agent will contact his RV or boat dealer (or both) and say the purchase is a go.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I don’t want to know what it’s going to cost us to insure our son. Boys in general get a (deserved) bad rap, insurance-wise. I’m fairly sure this will be my reaction to the insurance company’s quote.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xY5NlXcgCSQ/Wi9RuN1fyhI/AAAAAAAAGcw/2Du5afS3RC0q_syCV7k7ThtUAinEPV9DwCLcBGAs/s1600/send%2Bit%2Bto%2Bhell.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xY5NlXcgCSQ/Wi9RuN1fyhI/AAAAAAAAGcw/2Du5afS3RC0q_syCV7k7ThtUAinEPV9DwCLcBGAs/s400/send%2Bit%2Bto%2Bhell.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Nevertheless, we’ll pay. My Dad paid for me for the first little bit – and I recall myself, on my own, having to pay roughly $500 a year for insurance on a 1976 Chevy Nova that was in the final stages of Rusting Rigor Mortis. That would nearly double what we’re paying for insurance, and I’m sure prices have gone up since the mid-1990s.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">We have visions of him doing errand-driving for us. But given his homework load, his impending mission, and his general desire to remain motionless in the basement, it’s likely we’ll still have to do a lot of driving, mainly taking his sister to ballet lessons in Rexburg – because that burns up an evening, with the thrilling monotony of driving bookending the repetition of the seven basic ballet movements.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I hope our son can avoid the misery of auto accidents. I was in two of them in my formative driving years, one of them minor, the other major in terms of damage but minor in terms of injury. I can still remember the pattern on the shirt I was wearing for the latter one – ludicrous spoked steering wheels from a boat, with “Anchors Aweigh” underneath them in script. I see the pattern once in a while at the fabric store and I feel nauseous, although as time has passed, it’s mostly because I’m in a fabric store.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">I do remember this: Never heard a cross word from my parents about it. Although I’m sure plenty were said behind my back. Yeah, that nausea is coming back; it never really goes away, does it?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">But let’s not focus on that.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Focus on his successes – and the worry that the panic we saw in him in the kitchen this weekend when he forgot to spray the pan he was putting the brownie mix in never kicks in while he’s driving and oh God he’s going to get into so many wrecks . . .<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">But let’s not focus on that. Focus on the positive. He’s learning. Developing skills. Problem-solving and problem-anticipating skills. They’ll be honed over time. I mean, look at me: Knock on wood, not even a speeding ticket in twenty years of marriage. I’ve slid off the road a few times in winter, including one bladder-stressing moment when my truck spun right through the only gap in a long stream of traffic on a slick road. But not a dented fender nor a visit from a policeman. Let’s hope that keeps up, and is our son’s future.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal">For I, too, am a good driver. A licensed driver. Just don’t hand me any cigars at the gas station . . . I wouldn’t mind being brought in on the Wookalar case, though.<o:p></o:p></div>Mister Fweemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10339287419996343926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5184836410456050611.post-3685060116046726292017-12-08T13:46:00.002-07:002017-12-08T13:46:16.169-07:00A Weird Contrast in Books, Part II<a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/328198.Richard_Nixon_the_Man_Behind_the_Mask" style="float: left; padding-right: 20px;"><img alt="Richard Nixon the Man Behind the Mask" border="0" src="https://images.gr-assets.com/books/1387743618m/328198.jpg" /></a><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/328198.Richard_Nixon_the_Man_Behind_the_Mask">Richard Nixon the Man Behind the Mask</a> by <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/51644.Gary_Allen">Gary Allen</a><br />My rating: <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/2207713634">2 of 5 stars</a><br /><br />In reading Gary Allen’s “Richard Nixon: The Man Behind the Mask,” we get a peek at the right-wing nastiness that’s now in the fore.<br /><br />Let me say I don’t believe the right-wing has a corner on nastiness, as there’s plenty of that to go around in the extreme fringes of any political party. It is telling, however, to see the paranoia, the disdain for the media, and the veiled and unveiled racism inherent in right-wing Republicans of the 1960s and ‘70s, which we recognize today in the right-wing we’re seeing in power.<br /><br />In reading about this author, I see an irony. He mocks Nixon as an opportunistic politician, willing to bow to whatever winds blew to get him elected. Yet Allen was a speechwriter for George Wallace, a politician who started out as a Democrat on a crusade for race reconciliation in the South and who ended as a right-wing Republican who sang the graces of segregation because he saw in it supporters enough political power to get him into office. We all have our blinders, I suppose, but for most of us, we don’t get the chance to have them displayed so prominently.<br /><br />Allen and his supporters lament a party that slipped slowly to the left. Not that the party ever would become eponymous with the Democrats. What one perceives as a shift to the left can really be a shift to the center, where more and more voters find themselves due to the ugliness of the party purists on either end of the American political spectrum. Ronald Reagan would also probably be labeled as a squishy liberal by Allen et al’s standards, and might find it hard to fit into the Republican Party of today, which is slipping now to the right.<br /><br />Allen is somewhat schizophrenic – lionizing conservative firebrand Barry Goldwater for his unsuccessful run for the presidency in 1964 and then, in the same chapter, lambasting him for being a tool of the grassroots wave that took him through the nomination and to the election, but without the fire to do anything more than put his shoulder to the wheel after it was all over:<br /><br />[Goldwater] was propelled into candidacy by the zeal of the grass-roots to capitalize on the great depth and exuberance and loyalty felt by his hard-core supporters all over the country. Instead of continuing the crusade Goldwater went back to his ham radio. The ’64 election was water over the dam – Goldwater over the dam.<br /><br />No wonder Allen then fled to the firebrand race-baiter Wallace – here was a man who would follow through! Blinders fully on, of course. The desire to win – no matter the moral quality of the bedfellows – is what the right-wing seems to want, then and now. The ilk of Trump and Moore may have questionable morals and standards, but by golly they whistle the right tune!<br /><br />Allen is consistent in his schizophrenia. In the chapter entitled “The Pachyderms Return,” he laments that Nixon avoided patronage of many who helped get him elected, and then concludes by castigating Nixon for appointing several long-time friends and aides to his cabinet. Patronage only works for Allen, it seems, if those getting the plum jobs are conservative Republicans.<br /><br />And see, you get this on the left too. Nobody’s immune.<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/review/list/2832262-misterfweem">View all my reviews</a><br /><div><br /></div>Mister Fweemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10339287419996343926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5184836410456050611.post-85800842785076128502017-12-08T13:44:00.000-07:002017-12-08T13:44:06.584-07:00A Weird Contrast in Books. Part I<a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/31801304-the-associated-press-and-labor" style="float: left; padding-right: 20px;"><img alt="The Associated Press and Labor: Being Seven Chapters from the Brass Check; A Study of American Journalism" border="0" src="https://s.gr-assets.com/assets/nophoto/book/111x148-bcc042a9c91a29c1d680899eff700a03.png" /></a><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/31801304-the-associated-press-and-labor">The Associated Press and Labor: Being Seven Chapters from the Brass Check; A Study of American Journalism</a> by <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/23510.Upton_Sinclair">Upton Sinclair</a><br />My rating: <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/2207715066">4 of 5 stars</a><br /><br />Thanks to Slate.com, I’ve now read Upton Sinclair’s “The Brass Check,” his critique of the “concrete wall” of early 20th century journalism.<br /><br />Sinclair might be pleased to know that with the passing of a century, American journalism has improved. Somewhat. Though he might find some situations the same, albeit with different characters.<br /><br />(This is an interesting contrast to my other read this week, Gary Allen’s critique of Richard Nixon from the right-wing. Surely if Allen and Sinclair were to find themselves in the same room, some kind of matter/anti-matter explosion would occur.)<br /><br />The journalism Sinclair describes reminds me of the “fake news” phenomena we witness today on the Internet. I have to wonder if it’s gullibility of the reader, the gall of the fake news producer, or a combination of blissful ignorance and “I don’t have time for this” that makes such fake news proliferate. Facebook (something I’m sure Sinclair would find appealing and appalling at the same time) is working on a fake news detector so we can see, sometime soon, whether we fell for or followed fake news on our feeds. The question is: will the detector be fake news itself?<br /><br />I feel we’re in the same kind of quandary Sinclair found himself in when newspapers were sending and receiving fake cablegrams on his behalf in order to get the story, or writing pure fiction about him running a ranch for ne’er-do-well boys in Nevada while he was living in Bermuda. There’s such a proliferation of news and “news” thanks to the Internet, he might even find himself wishing for the halcyon days when the press was a “concrete wall” or symbolized by the metal bars of a prison cell. The mainstream press may have much higher ethical ideals (somewhat) than in his day, but in our day, who wants to listen to the mainstream press?<br /><br />It’s interesting, too, that Slate would publish this work as a literary-critiquey message to the new owners of the LA Weekly, who apparently are Trump supporters (!) who have fired most of the paper’s writers and want free contributions from the unwashed masses. (Had they been liberal owners, I suspect Slate wouldn’t be reacting this way; rather they’d briefly lament the state of modern journalism and leave it at that.)<br /><br />But it doesn’t matter. It got me to read Upton Sinclair, something I’ve been meaning to do since I found a copy of The Jungle at the thrift store who knows how long ago. (I’ve read plenty by Sinclair Lewis, whom I often confuse with Upton Sinclair, however.)<br /><br />I suppose the bottom line is we still have a national press controlled by business interests, a national press that often fakes ethicality as long as some political line is toed (and again, both sides of the American spectrum do this) or if there’s an element of sensationalism about the story to be told. Not that we don’t have reporters and organizations with high ethical standards that are worth far more than the powder it would take to blow them up – it’s just that the elements Sinclair decried in journalism are pretty much intact in the broad spectrum of what we call news.<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/review/list/2832262-misterfweem">View all my reviews</a><br /><div><br /></div>Mister Fweemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10339287419996343926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5184836410456050611.post-35156062157398139082017-12-05T21:10:00.000-07:002017-12-05T21:10:04.696-07:00"The Meadows"<div class="MsoNormal"><center><iframe allow="encrypted-media" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" gesture="media" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/YKRFlNryaWw" width="560"></iframe></center><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">You remember the guy from “So I Married an Axe Murderer,” the one who went on about “The Pentaverate” and how he hated the Colonel, with his wee beady eyes?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m reading a book about Richard Nixon that was written by him. Or at least someone who thinks an awful lot like him.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I know there was a right-wing of the Republican Party that was convinced Richard Nixon wasn’t conservative enough. This guy apparently belongs to that wing – Gary Allen, author of Richard Nixon: The Man Behind the Mask”. Or something like that. Looking at the cover, it’s hard to tell what the title is.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Colonel Sanders hasn’t yet come into the picture, but I expect his arrival any minute.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Gary Allen doesn’t like liberals. He does NOT like journalists. He does not like the Council on Foreign Relations, nor the Rothschilds, JP Morgan, and many, many others (thus the SIMAAM reference). And surely, he does not like Richard Nixon, and I haven’t even gotten to the part of the book that discusses Watergate yet. As the book was published in 1971, however, I suspect Watergate is not covered extensively.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Most of the books I’ve read about Nixon or relating to Nixon – even the one by G. Gordon Liddy(!) were relatively historical (if we can put the self-serving of Liddy’s book aside). The Man Behind the Mask may be the first purely political book I’ve read about Nixon. And it’s weird. W. Cleon Skousen, so far, features prominently – not surprising, as the author was a member of the John Birch Society.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">So, lots of weird little triggers. I may or may not finish reading it. It seems written for that specific kind of audience that wants MOAR EVIDENCE that Nixon is a “squishy liberal,” rather than a conservative. I’m sure the audience did a lot of nodding while reading, while the more critical observer might look at Allen’s equation of pragmatism=betrayal as a tad off-kilter. Give no quarter to the liberals is the core of this book, and as Nixon gave quarter, wharrgarbl Goldwater or something like that.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal">Kind of sounds familiar these days. What we might give for the stability(!) of a Nixon White House today.<o:p></o:p></div>Mister Fweemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10339287419996343926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5184836410456050611.post-74490885628928684822017-12-05T18:04:00.000-07:002017-12-05T18:04:05.676-07:00Beauty, Clark<div class="MsoNormal"><center><iframe allow="encrypted-media" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" gesture="media" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/cJ16axJDMNs" width="560"></iframe></center></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m not sure you could call it my first day as ward membership clerk, but it’s what I’ve got.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">In typical “sandblasting a soup cracker” style, I got some training. I may or may not remember how to log in to the computer, and I sure hope I remember that other password because the ward clerk says there may not be a reset password option. Hoping I got it written down well enough I can read it. I should probably get a notebook or something.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">One important thing to note: I’m *this* close to getting a key to the filing cabinet containing the candy bars. Oh, and also the records.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">There’s apparently a training video I need to watch. Should have watched it last night, but we went to the Wesley Bell Choir at the Methodist church instead – one of our holiday traditions. They do a good concert. Also, the first blizzard of the year. We had to crawl through it to get to and from the church. And I was glad when we got home to think that my truck was (finally) tucked away in the garage, out of the elements. I had the garage cleaned weeks ago, but the truck, wouldn’t fit in until we got the tailgate fixed so we could close the garage door. That only happened Friday.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">But back to clarking, as I’m going to call it.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Basically, I’m a stalker. I’m supposed to find out where people go and where they come from and where they’re supposed to end up. That’s about all I’ll say about it, as I’m dealing with a lot of personal information.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I may also want to read the church handbook, re: Clarks. I’m sure there’s revelatory stuff there.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">And as long as this post is going to be somewhat biographical our journal-y in nature, I’ll add this:<o:p></o:p></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal">The Nutcracker is halfway over – last performance is tonight. Another sign, along with the Wesley Bell Choir, that the Christmas season is sneaking up on us once again. Lexie did her (first, I think) solo in the show – as the ribbon candy dancer. I should probably have taken some pictures, but we will have a video of it coming shortly. Isaac also had a first in this round – I missed the leaping part, but he ended up holding a ballerina as part of the opening act – which they call the “Party Scene,” which takes up HALF of the entire show. It was fun to see, particularly as his face was, typically, pretty expressionless. But the more I watch this show, the more I understand why Tchaikovsky didn’t much like the music he did for it. (The music’s fine, but the story for the show is pretty dull. Girl dreams, hero saves her from the Rat King, and sweets dance for a very long time for their amusement.)<o:p></o:p></div>Mister Fweemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10339287419996343926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5184836410456050611.post-24396871316475464622017-12-04T20:39:00.002-07:002017-12-04T20:39:23.909-07:00Eyes On, Tentacles Ready<div class="MsoNormal"><i>Item: Elon Musk announces <a href="https://www.forbes.com/sites/alexknapp/2017/12/02/elon-musk-says-first-launch-of-spacexs-falcon-heavy-rocket-will-send-a-tesla-to-mars/#610f1d6b3829" target="_blank">plans</a> to put a midnight cherry red Tesla Roadster in orbit around the planet Mars.</i><br /><br /><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">“I have news.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Goom looked up from the display table. One tentacle continued to twiddle with the image of a supergiant red star on the screen, but the others stilled.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Announce your news.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Frop bubbled as the brain strained to remember the protocol of such announcements. Delivered correctly, they were automatically recorded by the station’s systems. Delivered incorrectly, they required much time and labor to correct.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Inhabitants of exoplanet Suchoi-Sonambli-Kotol-Three have launched a vehicle. Apparent destination, S-S-K-Four.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The system pinged as it recorded Frop’s report. Frop bubbled deeply.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Without looking at the screen, Goom snaked tentacles across the table, grasping at galaxies, then stars. A smear of light whirred past on the screen until the view slowed and settled on the image of an uremarkable star halfway up a galaxy’s spinning arm.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“S-S-K-Three,” Goom burbled as a tentacle poked the third planet from its star – a twinned planet; the larger a blue jewel, the smaller a grey, pockmarked disc.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Longest outward launches: Two small radioisotopic-powered probes that entered the interstellar medium, still communicating – feebly – with home. Coming shortly after the first meat landing on the twin. Twin revisited five times. No permanent visitations,” Goom chirped from memory.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“S-S-K-Four visited by non-meat, both on the surface and in orbit,” Goom said, this time staring at characters zooming by on the display. “Varying successes. Some crashes.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Goom tapped the screen, bringing S-S-K-Four and its two orbiting moonlets into close view.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Nature of newest vehicle?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Insufficient data at this time, though deltas indicate this vehicle ranks among the heaviest ever launched from S-S-K-Four,” Frop said.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Goom’s tentacle twiddled the planet on the screen – a rusty planet pocked with extinct volcanoes and gouged with immense canyons. Smaller than S-S-K-Four, but reasonable for . . .<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“We will watch this vehicle,” Goom said. “Make note.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The system pinged and the display zoomed out to show both the rusted planet and the blue jewel, with an icon indicating the estimated location of the vehicle.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Eyes on, Lieutenant Frop,” Goom said. “Tentacles ready.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Tentacles ready,” Frop echoed.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Frop slithered back to the home station, bubbling. Those passed turned an eye and bubbled in return as the system relayed the news to all watchers. Some watched the new vehicle for a time while others turned their eyes and tentacles back to their own watch stations, a bit jealous, perhaps, at Frop’s good fortune. Though launches and vehicles were many, launches capable of carrying meat were fewer.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Any launches of meat were noted and recorded and passed along to the higher authorities, but it was rare when news trickled the other way – often it was only in the popular media that those at the stations saw what came of their reports, if even the longest-lived of them were alive when the reports bore fruit.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“To launch meat requires a long view,” Frop recalled from lectures during years at the academy. “To launch meat, a species must see a purpose that takes them from their home planet, a purpose that sustains the departures, a purpose that builds destinations. When a species builds a destination that lasts generations, that species is noted among the great ones. It is essential – and feckless – to launch machines. But effectual when the launches of meat follow, and are sustained. This is what you will watch for. This is what you will report. Species leaving behind infancy and taking on the responsibility of maturity.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Besides, the lectures intoned, sending meat and retrieving meat and giving meat a home shows the meat is moral and ready for the long view.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Frop watched the vehicle launched from S-S-K-Three, and made the requisite reports.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">As expected, the further from home, the smaller the vehicle became. Though the planet was small, its gravity well was deep enough to make launching in stages the only way.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Those in Frop’s subgroup discussed the vehicle, and the meat’s choice to land on the twin, then seemingly abandon it.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“This is not the long view, not the long view,” said Thorp, leader of the subgroup.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Yet not unprecedented,” chimed in another. “We’ve seen it many, many times.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“It could be a longer view,” Frop said. “Skipping one in favor of the other. And why not – landing on a planet much closer in size to their own, with more resources nearby – the planet’s moons are made of metal! Natural for them to go where the resources are plentiful.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Could be, could be,” Thorp bubbled. Thorp liked to keep optimism among the watchers.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">And Frop watched.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Then the vehicle blossomed and shed parts and the observations came back and again Frop stood before Goom, going over the report protocols.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“I have news.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Announce your news.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Report on the vehicle launched from S-S-K-Three.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“How much meat?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Frop’s tentacles drooped to the floor.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“None.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“None?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“None.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Nature of the probe, then.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Frop hummed. “Not a probe.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Goom hummed, twiddled at the rusty planet on the screen.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“What has arrived at S-S-K-Four?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“It appears to be a ground vehicle.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Set to descend?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“No,” Frop hummed. “To orbit.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“A mistake, then? There have been others.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Apparently not,” Frop said.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Both Frop and Goom hummed.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“There are many such ground vehicles on S-S-K-Three,” Frop said. “Of the nature that require, at times, oxygen to function. There is little oxygen at S-S-K-Four.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“And none in orbit,” Goom said. He tapped the rusty planet and the vehicle orbiting it changed from a red, meaty color to a cold blue, matching that of the other failed vehicles in orbit or crashed on the planet.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“And the long view?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Unknown,” Frop said.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Return to your station. Eyes on, Lieutanant Frop. And tentacles ready.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal">Frop slithered and hummed back to the station, as those at the stations passed pretended to monitor their own planets.<o:p></o:p></div>Mister Fweemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10339287419996343926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5184836410456050611.post-38040221469024763452017-12-04T20:34:00.000-07:002017-12-04T20:34:00.563-07:00Personal Essays and Family History<div class="MsoNormal">And now, my beloved bretheren, all those who are of the house of Israel, and all ye ends of the earth, I speak unto you as the voice of one crying from the dust: Farewell until that great day shall come.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">So writes the prophet Nephi in 2 Nephi 33, <a href="https://www.lds.org/scriptures/bofm/2-ne/33.13?lang=eng#12" target="_blank">verse 13</a>.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">In this chapter he bears a powerful testimony of the value of the records he keeps. He expresses the hope that they would be preserved, and be found valuable to us in the latter days.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">We, you and I, will never write scripture.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">But I testify to you with the same assurance that Nephi testifies to us that what we write will speak to those who follow us as a “voice of one crying from the dust.” We may not speak to millions; we may speak only to those of our descendants who do family history and bother to dust off the crack open the paper and electronic files they find with our names on them. But we do speak.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I have many photos of my father, from those taken of him and his brother as boys at their Dutch village school, to a photo I have of him on my desk at work, where he poses next to his beloved 1948 Ford pickup.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">But the things of his I value the most are the words he wrote. Some were written to me, in the form of letters and father’s blessings. Others were written to the family at large. But in his words I hear his voice and feel his love.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">And he was not an educated man – his formal schooling stopped at the equivalent of the sixth grade, due to World War II. And English is not his native language.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">But in his beautiful script, learned at that Dutch school, I can hear his hopes for his children, his love for his children. His love and hopes for me.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Don’t think of writing as something you do to pass a class – like this one.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Don’t think of writing as something you’ll do now, but never again.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Writing things down is how we communicate with those who come after us. And while we can communicate through photos and recordings and video, what we record in writing carries more of our voice, more of ourselves, more of our loves and cares and dreams, than any other medium.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">So please write. Write for yourself, your children, your future children. Don’t write just for me or for any other instructor – because we won’t remember what you’ve written, to be honest. Your descendants, however, will.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal">Drown them in your writing, no matter how trivial it may seem. Someone down the line will enjoy reading the things you write. They’ll enjoy hearing your voice out of the dust, even if you’re around and not so dusty.<o:p></o:p></div>Mister Fweemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10339287419996343926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5184836410456050611.post-1195806045160816202017-11-28T21:15:00.002-07:002017-11-28T21:15:26.715-07:00Moving Cheese -- Union Style<div class="MsoNormal">As I write this, I’m still in my normal work cubicle. Whether or not I’ll finish this after a successful move or not is questionable.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Because of my current work location, I have to cross union lines for this move. Both unions apparently have to be involved, or they would not be unions. Unions aren’t apparently built for efficiency.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Best yet, since I’m the one who has to cross the lines, it falls to me to negotiate the complexities. And guess how excited I am about that, given my general excitement about the move in the first place.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">I do have one box packed. I should probably finish the other. But I’m not anxious to do so.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">[Insert a couple hours of whargarbl]<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s quieter here, I’ll give it that. I don’t have our Criticality Safety engineer shouting at me from halfway across the cubicle farm (he rarely shouts in anger; they’re happy shouts).<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Getting moved was, well, okay. Not as complex as I thought – but I did have to go back to my old office to pick up my phone. I thought about bringing it, but they kept saying “turnaround office in 637,” so I left it. But then I would have been phoneless here. And while that might have its advantages, I have let my cell phone number slip out so they’d find me eventually, like the Libyans.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">It felt weird leaving. I’ve been at my current location for I’m thinking six years, and I’d gotten used to the people around me and they’d gotten used to me. I did have a few goodbyes with people, though I’ll still work with them. It is different, though, when you can walk to their cubicle and ask a question, rather than have to send an email or pick up the phone because of the distance.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I’ll also have to figure out when it’s time to leave so I don’t miss my bus. And whether or not I want to catch the buses on this side, which I understand are free but require me to be here early, somewhere in the neighborhood of 6:15 or so AM. I’m not sure free is worth that, as the extra time I’d just have to eat; there’s no overtime for showing up on the bus, as it’s shift turnover time.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">My new cubicle is smaller. Briefly, it had an undercabinet light that might help me deal with what I think is growing Seasonal Affective Disorder. If we get to put together a laundry list of things we’d like as we settle in, that’s what I’ll ask for.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Also, I’ve already seen a mouse in the building. Not that a mouse scares me off. My first home at RWMC had marmots in it.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I am NOT underneath an air conditioning vent. That’s good.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I cannot poke my head out of the cubicle and glance out a window to see what the weather is. That’s bad.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The move did inspire me to clean up all the folderol I had on my cubicle walls. That’s good.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I didn’t do any cleanup of the folderol until I got here. That’s bad.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m no longer area warden, since I left my old building. That’s good.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I have no idea who the area warden is here, where our assembly area is, where we go if we have to evacuate, etc. That’s bad.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I did manage to get two procedures done for ARP, so they can happily go back to work and not bother me until the next fire. That’s good.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m pretty sure my Frogurt toppings contain potassium benzoate. That’s bad.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal">Can I go home now?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><center><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/Krbl911ZPBA" width="560"></iframe></center></div>Mister Fweemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10339287419996343926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5184836410456050611.post-13742324022467955372017-11-27T22:45:00.001-07:002017-11-27T22:45:19.978-07:00Cheese Moving<div class="MsoNormal"><center><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" gesture="media" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/-JJDTKQh7eo" width="560"></iframe></center><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Late last week I got an email at work asking for a list of things we wanted to take with us for our office move.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I dismissed it. I knew the writers at AMWTP were being moved to a different part of their building because of issues in their current location (noise, cold, stuff dripping on their desks). No one had talked to me about moving – I’m in a different building, serving a different group of workers.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Then today I got another email about “the move.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">So. I decided to make enquiries.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Apparently, I’m moving too.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s a real “who moved my cheese” moment (thus the video of Frank’s rat trap). While I’m still grappling with the newness of the idea (and I’m not yet sure I’m sold on it yet) it’s becoming more apparent that there’s not much I can do about it.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">So the cheese will move.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">It’ll make it more of a challenge for my customers to drop in on me. Which will probably mean more emails and phone calls, as I’m being moved about a twenty-minute walk (round trip) out of their way. I’m not sure what purpose the move serves other than getting all the writers together, because we can communicate via email and phone just as easily as anyone else.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal">The wheels will turn and I’ll find my cheese again. And probably have to get fitted for an additional pair of glasses.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Or this.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8hPgKedL9nc/Whz336FX-oI/AAAAAAAAGcg/PqKfKb7AnvQizNWkV9Vh8rfJlYGfURGqQCLcBGAs/s1600/weeks%2Bof%2Bconfusion.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="536" data-original-width="1200" height="177" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8hPgKedL9nc/Whz336FX-oI/AAAAAAAAGcg/PqKfKb7AnvQizNWkV9Vh8rfJlYGfURGqQCLcBGAs/s400/weeks%2Bof%2Bconfusion.gif" width="400" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div>Mister Fweemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10339287419996343926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5184836410456050611.post-69399153219009512262017-11-26T20:09:00.000-07:002017-11-26T20:09:00.804-07:00First on the Moon<a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/612453.First_on_the_Moon" style="float: left; padding-right: 20px;"><img alt="First on the Moon: A Voyage with Neil Armstrong, Michael Collins, Edwin E. Aldrin, Jr." border="0" src="https://images.gr-assets.com/books/1333243963m/612453.jpg" /></a><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/612453.First_on_the_Moon">First on the Moon: A Voyage with Neil Armstrong, Michael Collins, Edwin E. Aldrin, Jr.</a> by <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7317458.Buzz_Aldrin">Buzz Aldrin</a><br />My rating: <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/2196191225">5 of 5 stars</a><br /><br />It takes a talented team of writers to know when to step back and use original material and firsthand accounts, and when a bit of storytelling is needed to weave it all together. That's present in this telling of the Apollo 11 moon landing.<br /><br />And really, that was the only way to tell this story, as the documentary evidence was strong in the NASA record and the world was waiting to hear more from the astronauts themselves. So while I'm sure Armstrong, Aldrin, and Collins worked hard on their contributions to this book, Hamblin and Farmer should also get their due.<br /><br />Their inclusion of a glossary at the beginning of the book was handy, and I referenced it often enough until I refreshed the lingo in my head. (Being a big fan of the Apollo 13 film helped too.)<br /><br />To be avoided is the epilogue by Arthur C. Clarke. This is a book of science, not science fiction, and as with most hard sci-fi authors, Clarke is good at envisioning the future but guesses poorly when it comes to connecting the future to the present. Many of his predictions depended on public support and political will extending into space exploration long after the Apollo moon landings, when it should have been clear even at the time that the support and political will were going to be fleeting. Kennedy's promise to land on the moon and return before the decade was out had been reached, and there were no more public or political goals to accomplish. There's a reason the only reason we know of Apollo 18 is because of They Might Be Giants.<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/review/list/2832262-misterfweem">View all my reviews</a><br /><div><br /></div>Mister Fweemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10339287419996343926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5184836410456050611.post-50016031543069711412017-11-23T08:54:00.000-07:002017-11-23T08:54:12.619-07:00The Easter Bunny<div class="MsoNormal"><i>I’m not a perennial optimist; I think I’m more the fatalist – what’s written is written and I don’t know what it is. On the other hand, there’s nothing wrong in acting as if things will work out. I mean, if I tell my wife I believe in the Easter bunny – well, why not? Either he exists or he doesn’t and I choose to believe. I think that is much more pleasant. But if you really cornered me, I’d have to admit reluctantly that there is no Easter bunny.</i><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Michael Collins, p. 174 First on the Moon<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Bernie.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Yeah?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Ever listen to those old recordings?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Which ones?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Apollo.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“The Moon landing? Yeah.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The Hermit of Iapetus shifted in his seat and sneezed. A fine dust dribbled from a crack in the ceiling, particles floating in the Brownian motion of the chill refuge. “Not the Moon landing. That’s too dramatic. I mean the bits in between the excitement.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Can’t say that I have,” Bernie replied.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“You should. Did you know their air pressure was too low for them to whistle? Wally Schirra had enough air to play the harmonica, but Aldrin – he couldn’t whistle.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“No whistling on the way to the Moon. Tragic.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“We take it for granted,” the hermit said. He took a sharp breath – more dust shook from the crack in the ceiling – and whistled a long, sharp note.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Bernie, in the Mars/Titan express above, had to remove his headphones as the note blasted through space like an iron rock. “Mission Control probably did that on purpose,” he muttered. “You almost cost me an eardrum.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“We’ve never met, Bernie.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“That’s true. I don’t even know your name.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">They both laughed. Saturn joined in, buffeting their radio frequency with a burst of static.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“How do you know I exist?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“I hear you just fine,” Bernie said.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“That can’t be enough. I could be a figment of your imagination.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“No,” Bernie said. “My imagination isn’t this dull.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“A charlatan.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Come again?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“I could be spoofing you, Bernie. I say I’m on Iapetus, but I could be –“<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“No, you couldn’t,” Bernie said. “Because when we talk – at least on this part of my milk run – there’s no delay. Communication with Earth, the Moon – there’s a delay. Noticeable, but bearable. A little less of a delay with Mars. But with you, when Saturn’s big in my window, there’s no delay. Maybe you’re not on Iapetus, but you’re clearly in the neighborhood.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">The Hermit paused.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Clever,” Bernie said. “But you’ll never be consistent enough. I have an ear for it.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The Hermit laughed. “Charlatans could do it,” he said.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“That I don’t doubt. But why?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Does a charlatan need a reason?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“I guess not. But there is other evidence.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">All quiet on the radio.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“I have a telescope here. Just for fun,” Bernie said. “For looking at things. Sometimes when I’m close enough to a moon, the rings, or whatever, I watch. I’ve been close enough to Iapetus to see.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">The Hermit looked up at his cracked ceiling.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Tracks?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Greypeace is pretty upset about it. You’re a menace to Iapetean wilderness.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“And how do they know?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“They’re pretty anxious to buy the pictures I take.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Thanks for that, brother.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Hey, I do what I can. I tell them you don’t actually exist.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“You do?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Sure. Because I’ve never actually seen you. You hide well.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“And the tracks?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Aw, they could be anything.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">There was only one path he followed regularly. The one out to the plana. The one out to Her. He balled his fist and pounded the table lightly, making the microphone dance. “How much do you get per picture?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">This time, Bernie paused.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Bernie?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The only sound: Iapetus itself, where the moonquakes make the sound of fresh cheese curds.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Bernie?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Silence. Suddenly silent as the Easter bunny.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Sorry. Talking with Titan,” Bernie said.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The Hermit jumped at the sound.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“What was your question?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal">“Never mind,” the Hermit said.<o:p></o:p></div>Mister Fweemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10339287419996343926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5184836410456050611.post-89910250101043253832017-11-22T20:52:00.000-07:002017-11-22T20:52:05.766-07:00Reckoning<div class="MsoNormal">How long will it last – and how deep will it go?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The reckoning, I mean. We appear to be having one in the United States, spurred on by what I’m not exactly sure.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Fellows who practice the bad behavior winked at in popular culture are sweating. Nobody seems immune. It seems they go from pointing out the motes in others’ eyes to finally plucking the beams from their own.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Is anyone immune?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Politicians are bad boys, from former presidents George Bush and Bill Clinton, to senators and Senate candidates Al Franken and Roy Moore.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Entertainers, too, from Harvey Weinstein to – gasp – Pixar’s <a href="http://www.latimes.com/business/hollywood/la-fi-ct-john-lasseter-pixar-20171121-story.html" target="_blank">John Lasseter</a>.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">There are some claiming <a href="http://www.latimes.com/opinion/op-ed/la-oe-goldberg-sex-harassment-distinctions-20171121-story.html" target="_blank">distinctions</a> should be made, that some sins are forgivable, others are not; or are at least present on a sliding scale of depravity based on severity and location (assaults at the workplace are no-nos, but at a bar? Welllll . . . Seriously, that’s been brought up).<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Ought there to be a scale?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Careful. Making a scale is akin to putting the slippery soap on the <a href="https://www.theatlantic.com/entertainment/archive/2017/11/to-hell-with-the-witch-hunt-debate/546713/" target="_blank">slippery slope</a>. From the article (Sorry, one swear word ahead):</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /><i>When women stand up to say “keep your hands off of me” there’s a good chance they’ll be called prudes. Saying there’s a sex panic is a fancy way of saying that women’s bodies don’t completely belong to them the way their cars do. Someone can damage a woman’s car in a very small way, and insurance companies take it seriously and pay for the repair. She owns that car, and has every right to protect it. But if someone grabs her butt without her permission, she needs to lighten up. What is she, a frigid bitch?</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">All animals are equal, of course. But some are more equal than others.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Forgivable?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal">Probably. But not based on some arbitrary sliding scale. Contrition, the suffering of consequences, the refutation of behavior, that’s part of forgiveness. Apologies are the beginning, not the end. And the sorrow must be for the sin, not the act of being caught.<o:p></o:p></div>Mister Fweemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10339287419996343926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5184836410456050611.post-90567873463223519062017-11-22T20:45:00.000-07:002017-11-22T20:45:29.159-07:00Seven Chapters In<div class="MsoNormal">Back in January, I put Doleful Creatures away.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I’d completed 17 edits, and while it was getting closer by degrees to what I wanted the book to be, it was time to give it a rest.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Then today, a slack day at work I knew about beforehand. So I brought both electronic and hard copy manuscripts, complete with notes and fixes.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m through the first seven chapters. I’ve cut two chapters of 2,144 words, added 616, for a cut of just over 1,500 words. And I can finally see the story coming out.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m going to go about this slow. No more promises of having the book ready by the end of the year. Because <i>ha ha ha ha ha</i> I’ve been saying that for four years now. The book will be ready when it’s ready, and not a second before that.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">But that’s okay.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I want this to be the best book I can write.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Inspiration has shifted a little. I’ve gone from Robert C. O’Brien’s Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH to Walter Wangerin, Jr.’s Book of the Dun Cow. I’m not as hopeless without guarantees as Wangerin, but I’m not as crisp as O’Brien.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">What I’ve got to figure out is this: Humans or no? In which period does this book take place – on the evening of the fifth day [of Creation] or on the morning of the sixth? The more I look at it, the more I need humans involved in this. And they can be. Just in the peripheral way they’re involved in Watership Down or NIMH. We shouldn’t know any of their names. Just what they do intersecting with the animal world I’m creating. That was the big hangup that made me put the book aside in January. So maybe I’m past that.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal">And maybe one of these days I’ll write a funny book. But funny books, they seem hard. This is a serious book, and it’s taking me forever. I may not be cut out for funny.<o:p></o:p></div>Mister Fweemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10339287419996343926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5184836410456050611.post-8738366360121265262017-11-18T21:32:00.001-07:002017-11-18T21:32:21.441-07:00More Things Found in BooksScored seriously when I found these three books at the Rexburg DI this morning:<br /><br />First on the Moon, by Neil Armstrong, Michael Collins, and Edwin Aldrin, Jr. (which explains why he went by "Buzz";<br /><br />Overlord, by Max Hastings;<br /><br />Nixon" The Man Behind the Mask, by Gary Allen.<br /><br />The Nixon book should prove interesting, as it's written for the crowd who felt Tricky Dick was too much of a squashy liberal, rather than the stone-squeezing conservative they wanted him to be. To wit, note the two bits of paper being used as bookmarks in this book: <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-GUdx2w8cOgE/WhEGuIwktEI/AAAAAAAAGcQ/Eof0EZNIk8cz71INne8IrlxK7i0HiAa9QCLcBGAs/s1600/img20171118_21045108.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="797" data-original-width="1600" height="318" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-GUdx2w8cOgE/WhEGuIwktEI/AAAAAAAAGcQ/Eof0EZNIk8cz71INne8IrlxK7i0HiAa9QCLcBGAs/s640/img20171118_21045108.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uuFwxVDhSbU/WhEGuIeO-4I/AAAAAAAAGcM/3KJcscOALJIfzHDtPobh6mXnrUcEl31-gCLcBGAs/s1600/img20171118_21090813.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="815" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uuFwxVDhSbU/WhEGuIeO-4I/AAAAAAAAGcM/3KJcscOALJIfzHDtPobh6mXnrUcEl31-gCLcBGAs/s640/img20171118_21090813.jpg" width="324" /></a></div><br />Clearly, this book was being read by a patriot.<br /><br />Note a few interesting things:<br /><br /><ol><li>State government took a bite of a whopping nineteen cents in 1972, from wages earned for 41.5 hours of work.</li><li>This person earned $1.85 an hour (minimum wage then was $1.60 an hour). The wage <a href="https://www.dollartimes.com/inflation/items/1972-united-states-minimum-wage" target="_blank">represents</a> just under $10 an hour in 2017 dollars.</li><li>Rogers Brothers was a <a href="http://www.bonnevilleheritage.com/MJFCODPg.php?pag=chap2" target="_blank">seed company</a> that operated in Idaho Falls from 1911 to 1986 and was rather a mover and shaker in <a href="https://books.google.com/books?id=lLoxAQAAMAAJ&amp;pg=RA10-PA16&amp;lpg=RA10-PA16&amp;dq=rogers+brothers+company+idaho+falls&amp;source=bl&amp;ots=MiTkfv7dYz&amp;sig=Di9xqvMVnihZq5mVZBBcYdQ0EAs&amp;hl=en&amp;sa=X&amp;ved=0ahUKEwjuw8So5snXAhXKgFQKHauwDioQ6AEISDAH#v=onepage&amp;q=rogers%20brothers%20company%20idaho%20falls&amp;f=false" target="_blank">seed research</a> nationally. I vaguely remember seeings signs for this company around town when I was a kid.</li></ol>Mister Fweemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10339287419996343926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5184836410456050611.post-43524130794646080832017-11-16T19:41:00.001-07:002017-11-16T19:41:18.845-07:00Friday Night<div class="MsoNormal">Friday night, my sister and I sat behind Mom’s garage, sipping diet sodas, watching stuff burn.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">They were the last bulky objects to come out of the house and garage: A particleboard cabinet with a broken door, a wooden shelf from the basement suffering from a little rot and hasty craftsmanship. Albert’s truck was already full of junk and the transfer station was closed, so burning these objects – along with a small random collection of other wooden junk – seemed appropriate. The house is out in the county where no burn permits are required. The night was cool and windless, the patch of ground bare.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">We sat on a log lumpy with burlwood, something Dad brought home from some adventure somewhere. It had always been at the house. I remember it posted in the back yard at our other house, near the sandbox. It had always been there. Now it was shorter, its bottom rotted. We probably should have thrown it on the fire too, but it was the only place to sit.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Everything else in the house and garage was either loaded up in cars and trucks or hauled off long ago.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The house is sold. The garage swept, the tools bundled up in my truck. The only resident of the house now, a lonely recliner that nobody had room for (my house, stuffed with stuff from Mom’s already looks like a consignment shop). A gift, then, for the new owners.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Footsteps, and a flashlight, to the side of the garage. I was standing because the burlwood was uncomfortable. We thought it was Albert, back from the dump.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“You got a phone? My radio’s not working.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">A sheriff’s deputy. Not Albert.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Somebody saw your fire and called the cavalry,” he said. Indeed, across the field behind the house, we can see a lit-up fire engine approaching, sirens shouting into the darkness.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“I can see you’ve got a controlled burn here. Can I borrow a phone to call dispatch?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I hand him my phone, and, like the rest of us, stumbles to dial the area code, a new requirement. He makes his call, hands back the phone, then wishes us a good night.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The fire truck arrives, lights still in Christmas glory.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I wander to the front to meet the deputy and a fireman coming back. The fireman, too, looks at our fire – much diminished from whenever the call was made – and agrees there’s nothing to worry about. “Just make sure you’ve got a shovel and a hose ready, just in case,” he said. They leave. I retrieve a shovel and a hose from the back of my truck, and we watch the fire grow dimmer.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">The fire truck and deputy leave; the neighborhood has had its last bit of excitement from the Davidson family.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Mom, of course, died on August 18, seventeen years and seventeen days after Dad passed, or about seven years after he built the new house about a quarter mile from the one he built in the 1960s. We’d signed the paperwork to sell the house the day before the fire, and were there that day getting two sisters moved out and the rest of the stuff of generations boxed up and either taken home or to the dump.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">It was my job to claim the tools. Should have been pretty simple, as Dad pared down the number of tools he had when he moved. But it took two loads in my tiny Toyota to claim it all, including the table I decided to take home to my own garage so I’d have somewhere to store all the new tools I’d collected. I am suddenly rich in socket sets and drill bits, and I need a place to put them.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">So the tools are loaded. Next comes the bottles of automotive chemicals: Wiper fluid, fuel treatment, motor oil and paint polish. And can after can of spray paint. The county does a yearly chemical disposal day. I’ll have to store it all until then. I wanted to leave it to the new owners, but the drive now is to clear the garage of all but the bundles of shingles that match the house. So the chemicals come home with me. Maybe I can use some of them.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The firewood, too, is loaded up – Albert brings his trailer and his two boys, and we toss wood into the trailer until the garage is empty. Then with brooms native to the home and those brought from afar, we sweep the garage, inhaling dust from leaves and wind and mouse nests in the firewood. Far more dangerous than the fire that gets the fire department there. We throw the debris on the fire.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Albert and his boys leave. So does my sister. I sit in the dark behind the garage, watching the fire, embers now.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">There’s the yurt. Albert and I agree it’ll probably be torn down by the new owners. That seems sad. But the round shed built by Dad, capped with half a five-gallon bucket, is showing stress cracks in its brick walls – Dad was a bricklayer, building a brick shed was natural. Inside it, a wheelbarrow.&nbsp;</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Between Albert and I, we have five wheelbarrows. So the wheelbarrow stays for the new owners.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">The embers are dim. I’m tired of waiting. The hose from the truck won’t reach the pit, but I have a five-gallon bucket and I fill it ten times, dousing the embers. Then with Dad’s coal shovel I shuffle the coals to make sure there’s nothing glowing. Only a few little spots remain in the black beneath a sky washed of stars by the lights from the high school football stadium across the field.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal">I’m the last one at the house, and it’s quiet. The windows of the house are dark and the only light comes from the empty garage. I turn the lights off and drive my truck, loaded down like the Clampetts’ jalopy, home where, decades in the future, my own children will eventually have to do a similar cleaning out. I should probably teach a few of them how to use drill bits and socket sets, as I have plenty of those.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-lSMlGqKiwlw/Wg5MMCwF0rI/AAAAAAAAGb8/2khJ7TY7sEcXgreQGKGbrt6FxhhqNFoagCLcBGAs/s1600/clampetts.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="480" height="300" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-lSMlGqKiwlw/Wg5MMCwF0rI/AAAAAAAAGb8/2khJ7TY7sEcXgreQGKGbrt6FxhhqNFoagCLcBGAs/s400/clampetts.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div>Mister Fweemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10339287419996343926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5184836410456050611.post-44876807066469220182017-11-13T21:47:00.003-07:002017-11-14T21:58:59.962-07:00My Time<div class="MsoNormal">In a way – a big way – failing to weather this particular storm was my fault.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I felt it coming for years. But like the brave newscasters who have to get out from behind the desk to report the news when the hurricane is coming in only to get blown over or have to cling to a power pole as the winds buffet them.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">So in 2005, about ten years after I entered the world of newspaper journalism, I left. Rear-end first. I screwed up a court story that could have landed the paper in hot water – partly because for years I’d been burned out on journalism, didn’t like the job any more, and didn’t care.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">So to quit/be fired, was a relief – and was rattling.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I had a wife and three kids. My wife worked part-time as an office manager and was having her own struggles with difficult bosses. My job brought the health insurance and the bulk of our income. I should have stayed. Should have tried to fix my attitude.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">But I walked away.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">We were living in a town of just under 2,000 people, next to a town of about 20,000. Job prospects were few. So my brother, who was doing a brick job nearby, came by with a pizza. I didn’t want to see him, or anybody else for that matter. The copy of the paper announcing my rear-end exit was underneath the bed, and I felt its righteous indignation zooming at me through the mattress.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">We ate the pizza. He talked to me about working, and jobs, and how God would help take care of us.<o:p></o:p><br /><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I didn’t even taste the grease. And I didn’t want to hear about God. If God cared, he’d have helped me feel better about being a journalist, rather than sending me to work all day feeling sorry for myself.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">So I became a hod carrier again – a bricklayer’s assistant. My brother gave me a job right there. He didn’t have to. He did because I was his brother and I needed the job.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I still felt sorry for myself, though it meant I still could collect a paycheck.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">That was April April first. And I was the April Fool.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">He was working on a better job of his own. He’d worked before for a contractor making tank armor for the United States government, and it was looking good that he could get on with them again. That meant my reprieve from joblessness was temporary.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">So I had to apply for lots of jobs. And soon.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">On my own. Because, you know, God didn’t help me out before. So why bother him?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I applied for lots of jobs, both locally and out of state. Got invited to quite a few interviews. And always got to that spot where we talked about my employment history and I had to tell them what happened. I never got a call back.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">My brother got his job making armor, leaving me jobless again.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I wasn’t jobless for long. Quickly, I was working mornings stocking shelves at a big box store and afternoons and evenings doing telemarketing. The first job showed me I might be able to organize things. The second job showed me there were things I was worse at than Journalism.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">And God wasn’t part of my equation.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Especially the rainy morning when, on the way to the box, my truck broke down – turns out it threw a rod – and I had to call my wife using the last ounce of juice in the cell phone so she could come get me. And take me to my loser job and then pick me up from my loser job and take my loser self home to stew about getting the truck towed somewhere to get it fixed – though we couldn’t afford to.&nbsp;</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Probably.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">So I sat in that truck and talked with God. It was the first time I’d talked with Him since I lost my job. I wasn’t pleasant. As the rain splattered the windshield I had to tuck my glasses into my pocket to try to wipe off the tears.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">As my wife pulled up behind me, I heard two words: My time.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">My time.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">My time.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I thought about those words on the way to work.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">That was November.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">December came. Still the big box and the call center.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">January. Still the big box but a different call center, one with vastly better health benefits.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">February. More jobs applied for, more jobs rejected for.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">March. My wife saw a camper for sale. Three thousand dollars. We were still paying off the $1,500 for the rebuilt truck engine. Her Dad had to buy me tires.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Three thousand dollars, she said. We’ve got it in the bank. We can afford it.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I have two jobs that suck, I reminded her.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">My time.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">My time. The words kept coming. I hadn’t talked to God since that rainy day in November. I had no faith.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Mid-March. No job prospects.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">We bought the camper. “It’ll work out,” my wife said.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I didn’t see how.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Then the blessed Tuesday. We walked our kids to school and decided, since I had the day off, to continue our walk in the spring sunshine. My wife had our cell phone with her. She decided to check messages – something she did only once or twice a month.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">There was a message.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">A job offer.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">My time, the voice said again in my head.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I called the number and set up a time to talk. Friday, my next day off, wasn’t fast enough. So Wednesday, during my lunch break.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“The job is yours if you want it,” the man said.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">If I wanted it? A job where I’d have health benefits, make 2 ½ as much as I was now, and have three-day weekends in perpetuity?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Damn hell I wanted the job.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">We shook hands.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">On the way home, the calendar popped into my head.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">April Fools Day.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I was still a fool.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“I never stopped praying,” my wife said as we walked, after she checked the messages and after I made that phone call.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“I did,” I confessed.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“I know,” she said. “I talked to God about it. A lot. I knew you were hurting. But you kept going to church. You kept looking. You should have involved God more. But He never left.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">My time, I remembered the voice saying.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I’ve talked a lot with God since then. I don’t wait for the storm clouds to come any more.</div><br /><div class="MsoNormal">I also thanked my brother for that pizza. And that job.<o:p></o:p></div>Mister Fweemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10339287419996343926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5184836410456050611.post-30867805352129422382017-11-10T22:52:00.000-07:002017-11-10T22:53:11.646-07:00Keep Your Eyes Open<div class="MsoNormal">It is foolish to shut one’s self inside a wardrobe, even if it is not a magic one.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Lucy, from CS Lewis’ “The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe,” knew this of course. That’s why she left the door partly ajar as they played hide-and-seek in the house of Professor Kirke that rainy afternoon.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">And like Lucy, when she walked through the back of that wardrobe into the snowy forests of Narnia, I know it’s foolish, too, to step forward without looking back at least once or twice at the comfort&nbsp; that is a snatch of wood from the back of the wardrobe door, glimpsed through snowy boughs.<o:p></o:p><br /><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">But like the Pevinsies, listening to the warning of Professor Kirke after they returned, I know looking to go through that wardrobe again into that magical world won’t work again.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">That’s not how Narnia works, he said. You’ll find your way back, but never again through that wardrobe.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Today, we signed the papers on selling Mom’s house, the one Dad built for hear in the early 1990s. We went back shortly after for one last time, to heave an antique piano – one that crossed the plains of the United States first on a train and then by covered wagon – to reach the shores of Bear Lake.<o:p></o:p><br /><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Never again. Through that wardrobe.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">If I were to walk through a wardrobe into the past, however, it would not take me to the house on Romrell Avenue. Instead, it would take me here.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">That’s the other house Dad built, back in the 1960s. That’s where I grew up.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">And yet.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Never again. Through that wardrobe.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Because, though the house may still be there, its secrets were the people who lived there, not the bricks and wood and stone that make it up.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The house, the yard, the rooms – they seem big in my memories. To visit them again now, they’d probably feel small. And by the looks of Google Maps, a bit cluttered.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-x3a7PMF15Nk/WgaPvlabvXI/AAAAAAAAGbs/zVU8zU6muEkxtDIaz3CmNyP6SgVqqU2xQCLcBGAs/s1600/Hitt%2BRoad.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="671" data-original-width="667" height="400" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-x3a7PMF15Nk/WgaPvlabvXI/AAAAAAAAGbs/zVU8zU6muEkxtDIaz3CmNyP6SgVqqU2xQCLcBGAs/s400/Hitt%2BRoad.PNG" width="397" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Gone is the garden.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Gone are the rock paths Dad built through the yard.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Gone are most of the trees, too. And the lilacs, the strings of lilacs.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Gone.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Never again. Through that wardrobe.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Gone too are the people. Mom and Dad, gone and waiting. The others, still here, but scattered. I remember each of them in that house. One sister strumming the guitar while the other pulled fluff out of a mattress to throw at me. One brother scaling the garage wall to show off a basketball trick, the other in football uniforms, running plays.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">And others – playing in the dirt, staying out until even the light of summer was dimmed.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Never again. Through that wardrobe.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;</div><div class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">And yet. . .<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Once a King in Narnia, always a King in Narnia,” said Professor Kirke. “ But don't go trying to use the same route twice. Indeed, don't try to get there at all. It'll happen when you're not looking for it. And don't talk too much about it even among yourselves. And don't mention it to anyone else unless you find that they've had adventures of the same sort themselves. What's that? How will you know? Oh, you'll know all right. Odd things, they say-even their looks-will let the secret out. Keep your eyes open.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Keep your eyes open, he said.</div><br /><div class="MsoNormal">I will. The magic will find me again.<o:p></o:p></div>Mister Fweemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10339287419996343926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5184836410456050611.post-31298991795431322032017-11-07T20:25:00.002-07:002017-11-07T20:25:21.214-07:00Educational Paradox<div class="MsoNormal">As a parent, I see this:<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Schools <a href="http://www.nea.org/tools/17360.htm" target="_blank">encourage</a> parents to <a href="http://www.centerforpubliceducation.org/Main-Menu/Public-education/Parent-Involvement/Parent-Involvement.html" target="_blank">get involved</a> with their kids’ <a href="http://education.ohio.gov/Topics/Other-Resources/Family-and-Community-Engagement/Getting-Parents-Involved/Sample-Best-Practices-for-Parent-Involvement-in-Sc" target="_blank">education</a>, to make sure homework gets done, to encourage them to study for tests, etc.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The minute we, as parents, <a href="https://www.education.com/slideshow/helicopter-parenting/lobbyist6/" target="_blank">get involved</a> by <a href="http://www.latimes.com/opinion/op-ed/la-oe-morrison-lythcott-haims-20151028-column.html%20https://www.forbes.com/forbes/welcome/?" target="_blank">having a question</a><a href="https://www.forbes.com/forbes/welcome/?toURL=https://www.forbes.com/sites/ashleystahl/2015/05/27/5-reasons-why-helicopter-parents-are-sabotaging-their-childs-career/&amp;refURL=https://www.bing.com/&amp;referrer=https://www.bing.com/" target="_blank">on a grade</a> or an assignment, we’re labeled as helicopter parents and troublemakers.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">As I read more about helicopter parenting, it’s clear we don’t fall into that category. We allow our children to fail. They face repercussions for their actions. And we don’t do everything for them.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">But we do check on things.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Our schools send us weekly reports on grades. My wife goes over them with each child, noting any low grades or missing assignments (we have one child on the autism spectrum, so doing this is imperative, as he has a knack for completing homework but forgetting to turn it in). If we notice there’s a problem, we’re not immediately on the phone with teachers. We make it clear it’s our kids’ jobs to find out about late or missing work, and to make arrangement s with their teachers to get it done or suffer the consequences.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">However – there are times we have to step in. And this is where the helicopter parenting label seems to get slapped on, and quickly.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">We’ve pulled our oldest kid out of classes and got him with a different teacher when we could see the teacher’s style wasn’t going to mix with his cognitive limitations. And we let our youngest take a class from the same teacher, and thusfar, things have gone well.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">We’re right now butting heads with a teacher/student teacher combination over rather vague language used in grading one of our daughter’s essays. The message we’ve received is that the teachers will cover this in class, and that since the discussion takes place in class, we, as parents, don’t need to be involved. Except that our daughter isn’t understanding the discussion in this advanced class. We’ve just asked for the definition of one concept – but we can’t get it. Because it was discussed. In class.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">If seeking clarification over a bit of classroom jargon is helicopter parenting, I guess we’re guilty.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">We’ve also had to fight to get our kids credit for dual enrollment and advanced placement classes. The school district and state have rather byzantine systems to get the students this credit, with only one person in the district trained clearly on the ins and outs. My wife ran up against roadblock after roadblock earlier this semester with this system, including secretaries who would never let her talk with the person in the know. She finally got his direct number and got things fixed within minutes.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">(Thanks to one teacher, at least, who noticed for our oldest that the final button hadn’t been pushed the day before the deadline so we could get two classes taken care of.)<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">If penetrating the bureaucracy is helicopter parenting, I guess we’re guilty. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><center><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" gesture="media" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/iDmfnzr3594" width="560"></iframe><o:p></o:p></center></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><span style="font-family: &quot;Calibri&quot;,&quot;sans-serif&quot;; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" gesture="media" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/JtEkUmYecnk" width="560"></iframe>M/center&gt;</span>Mister Fweemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10339287419996343926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5184836410456050611.post-68463476579973733772017-11-07T20:12:00.000-07:002017-11-07T20:12:19.053-07:00Before and After<div class="MsoNormal"><b>Before</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I sit here thinking thoughts.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I was Scoutmaster for four years. That’s longer than the current bishopric has been in place. So my meeting with the stake president tonight (or a duly appointed representative) likely won’t be for that.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">What is possible? Anything, I guess. But the law of averages tells me maybe something in the Elders Quorum – the current presidency has been in place for three years, and they tend to rotate through them faster. That’s my worst-case scenario.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Or maybe a quiet clerk’s job. Or maybe something connected with Sellers Creek, the new trek center up in the foothills. I responded to a stake survey many moons ago regarding possible talent that could be loaned to the center. I put down writing. You know, brochures and such. So maybe that. That right there would be the best-case scenario.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I sit here thinking thoughts, before I meet with You Know Who tonight.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Below, my thoughts afterward. Whether or not my lips will be numb in the telling is yet to be seen.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><span style="font-family: &quot;Calibri&quot;,&quot;sans-serif&quot;; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><center><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" gesture="media" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/YrbY4hsNh64" width="560"></iframe></center></span><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;Calibri&quot;,&quot;sans-serif&quot;; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>After</b></span></span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Membership Clerk. Details to follow.</span>Mister Fweemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10339287419996343926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5184836410456050611.post-7997653187324688432017-11-04T11:53:00.002-06:002017-11-04T11:53:20.821-06:00RINO in Repose<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Somehow, I knew the Bonneville County Republican Central Committee was going to come into this <a href="http://www.localnews8.com/news/billboard-targets-mayoral-candidate/649976700" target="_blank">story</a>.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And because I offer anyone the benefit of the doubt, I will agree with the notion the “Businesses for Growth” and the BCRCC are separate entities, as this story indicates.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">However, color me unsurprised if that separation is on paper only.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The BCRCC has taken a hard right turn over the last few years. Not quite into Kootenai County territory, but getting closer. They probably take this as a compliment.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Even better, the Post Register drills down to see who’s funding the group, finding perennial flies in the ointment Frank VanderSloot and (everybody’s favorite) Doyle Beck. (See screencap.)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-B6FveSy9Tdk/Wf3-TBNWzBI/AAAAAAAAGbc/_4hHgcnzN7oFKBYrTH82foxuSJGtWKncgCLcBGAs/s1600/bfg%2Bscreencap.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" data-original-height="874" data-original-width="843" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-B6FveSy9Tdk/Wf3-TBNWzBI/AAAAAAAAGbc/_4hHgcnzN7oFKBYrTH82foxuSJGtWKncgCLcBGAs/s320/bfg%2Bscreencap.PNG" width="308" /></span></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">They’re certainly entitled to spend their money any way they sound fit. But to hear Beck say he wants “transparency” while hiding behind a PAC like Businesses for Growth is kinda funny.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It just makes me wary. And weary.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">For the record, I am a registered Republican. For reasons that stray far from party politics.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Also for the record:<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: inherit;">1.<span style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; </span><!--[endif]-->I voted in favor of turning Eastern Idaho Technical College into the College of Eastern Idaho (thus increasing my property taxes).<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: inherit;">2.<span style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; </span><!--[endif]-->I voted in favor of the bond to build Thunder Ridge High School in the Bonneville School District (thus increasing my property taxes).<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Those two items alone brand me as a RINO per the BCRCC, because ANY increase in tax or fee is bad. BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAD. And that’s fine. I’d never pass any purity test offered by any political party, so I’m not going to start with the Republicans.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">But back to this billboard and Businesses for Growth.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Sure, you don’t like current Mayor Rebecca Casper for reasons.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">But anyone but Casper? That makes me want to vote for Casper, and I can’t, as I reside in the city Businesses for Growth would rather live in. Neither VanderSloot nor Beck can vote for (or against) her either, as they don’t reside in the city. Which is why they want to buy city residents’ votes instead.<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">This is no nevermind, as Businesses for Growth kinda misses the boat on growth anyway. Paul Menser, writing at his <a href="http://www.bizmojoidaho.com/2017/10/economic-development-in-idaho-falls-is.html" target="_blank">Bizmojo Idaho blog</a>, says it better than I ever could.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And if Businesses for Growth wants to talk about expensive water, they need to look at living in Madison County, where growth is spectacular along their lines but water is maddeningly expensive, relatively speaking. We lived up there for more than ten years and were thrilled to move to a place where water isn’t metered. Yet.</span></span>Mister Fweemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10339287419996343926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5184836410456050611.post-6258996090486057302017-10-31T22:41:00.003-06:002017-10-31T22:42:25.350-06:00Schizophrenic Alexa<div class="MsoNormal">We’re coming up on a year of having a passel of Amazon’s Alexa devices in the house, and I’m beginning to get a little concerned.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The Dot we have in our kitchen, for the lack of a better word, has always been a bit more on the stupid side than the others. I know that sounds funny, but it’s true. Ask any other device in the house to play, say, Andy Williams or whatever other dreck any random family member wants played, those devices will play it.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The one in the kitchen, well, she’s either a little hard of hearing or thinks she knows better than the rest of us. She want to play Andy William, not Williams – and there’s a big difference there, rest assured. And she’s the one always pushing creating Pandora stations while the other devices around the house just shuffle songs by the artists we ask for.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The kitchen isn’t any noisier than any other room, and with the wireless router just across the room, she’s got the strongest signal. I don’t know what’s up.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">But it’s spreading.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Now the basement Echo wants to push Pandora. And it’s causing some problems.<o:p></o:p><br /><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">My wife has a certain artist she enjoys – I can’t remember his name. She used to be able to play his music quite a bit. But now Alexa wants to pair him with another artist, and ends up playing one song over and over and over again. That’s not good.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Also, I enjoy listening to comic Brian Regan, and have found just a shuffle through his routines to be enjoyable. Now Alexa has created a Pandora station that begins with a warning that the station contains explicit material. Not what a Brian Regan fan is really looking for, you know.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I think she’s a little schizophrenic. Or pushy.</div><br /><div class="MsoNormal">Maybe something’s all up in her algorithms. I sure like blaming Al Gore for everything.<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bKslA4sYtPA/WflQbRgIMnI/AAAAAAAAGbM/xFZxZY9dlGgHtp8lHrYcTYCcVMjoalqkgCLcBGAs/s1600/you%2Bare%2Bhearing%2Bme%2Btalk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bKslA4sYtPA/WflQbRgIMnI/AAAAAAAAGbM/xFZxZY9dlGgHtp8lHrYcTYCcVMjoalqkgCLcBGAs/s640/you%2Bare%2Bhearing%2Bme%2Btalk.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div>Mister Fweemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10339287419996343926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5184836410456050611.post-73657096727122804272017-10-31T22:40:00.002-06:002017-10-31T22:42:42.687-06:00Characters<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">There are two authors a writer should study if that writer wants good characters: Charles Dickens and Terry Pratchett.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I’ll lean heavily on Pratchett for most of this post, as it’s Pratchett I’m currently reading. I’ve read Dickens, of course, but it’s been about a year since we finished reading/listening to his “A Tale of Two Cities,” so it’s not as fresh on my mind.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Both Pratchett and Dickens remind me of one very important thing: Characters should be real.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">That sounds odd considering both wrote fiction, but it’s true. Fictional characters should feel so real you have pictures of them in your head and you’re disappointed when the pictures others create, either for book covers or films, don’t match what you’ve got in your head because they don’t look like the picture in your head.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Take Esme Weatherwax, for one.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">When I picture Mistress Weatherwax, I get <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0001649/" target="_blank">Anne Ramsey.</a> Kind of a mix between the “Goonies” Ramsey, all dressed in black and forceful in appearance, and the” Scrooged” Ramsey, disheveled, a little tipsy.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">So it’s rather discomfiting to see her like <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Granny_Weatherwax" target="_blank">this</a>.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">So when she drops in – briefly – for a visit in Pratchett’s “Wintersmith,” it’s a familiar face, because I’ve read her stories and know her ways and have a picture of her in my head.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Thing is, with Dickens and Pratchett, even the minor characters get into your head. Take Annagramma, from “Wintersmith.” If you’re not familiar with her, she’s a young, rather supercilious witch who thinks she knows everything but is rather going into things over her head. To mar my age, I picture her as an amalgam of Jan Brady from “The Brady Bunch” for the innocence, and Alex P. Keaton from “Family Ties” for the supercilious knowitalism.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">No matter how I picture them, these characters all have one thing in common: Spend fifteen minutes with them, and it feels like you’ve known them your whole life (thank you, Nanny Ogg).<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Dickens has this way with characters, from the Cratchitt family in A Christmas Carol to Jerry Cruncher and Miss Pross in “A Tale of Two Cities.” In these characters, we discover a depth of dedication and deviousness (loyalty, I suppose, is the nicer thing to say about Miss Pross) neither we nor their employers suspect.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I know what I’m writing isn’t revelatory. Both Pratchett and Dickens are well known for their vivid characters. I am writing this for me, as a writer struggling with characterization. I need to be able to picture my characters in my head and be disappointed if the image I have isn’t the one that comes out in the wash.</span></span>Mister Fweemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10339287419996343926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5184836410456050611.post-54035812066522899412017-10-25T22:35:00.003-06:002017-10-25T22:35:38.806-06:00Fingers Crossed<div class="MsoNormal">So I finally got to tend to my possibly-dead computer over the weekend.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Amateur diagnosis: Maybe something bad, maybe something good. I don’t know. But I’m going to find out. This is no mere History Eraser Button – it’s my computer.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="height: 0; padding-bottom: 75.0%; position: relative;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="360" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/ku2wFaaPAzI?ecver=2" style="height: 100%; left: 0; position: absolute; width: 100%;" width="480"></iframe></div><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m not a complete idiot when it comes to fixing computers. I have replaced fans, power supplies, installed memory and video cards, etc., and worked on many a printer issue and software problem. But it’s mostly trial and error. And when my computer wouldn’t go beyond the HP startup screen, I knew getting it working again was beyond my ken.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Fortunately, my wife knows a guy through Scouting who does computer diagnostics and repair, so we took the box to him Sunday night, hoping he can fix it for me.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m hoping at minimum I can get some data recovered – there are a couple of incomplete novels, a lot of journal entries, pictures, etc., on that computer that I may or may not have backed up somewhere. The journal entries would be the biggest loss, as most of them are scans of paper journals that I no longer have (why I thought it was a good idea to toss the paper once the scans were done is beyond me).<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">A lot of it can be replaced, but it’s things like comic strips and Simpsons memes that I’ve collected over the years, and the thought of having to start over again brings to mind one of the memes I may have lost:<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4woc0LchZeY/WfFl4vKDZII/AAAAAAAAGa4/FHQMO30QixIq8KDXbGXlA7YceT5QUiFWgCLcBGAs/s1600/a%2Blifetime%2Bto%2Bshop%2Bfor.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4woc0LchZeY/WfFl4vKDZII/AAAAAAAAGa4/FHQMO30QixIq8KDXbGXlA7YceT5QUiFWgCLcBGAs/s640/a%2Blifetime%2Bto%2Bshop%2Bfor.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal">So, clearly, First World Problem, because with one computer dead that leaves me only with five other computers to choose from in the house.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">[Checks onion on belt.] Back in the day when I had that old Royal typewriter, if it was broke, I just didn’t type any more letters.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I wonder what I did with that typewriter? Not that I have room for it in the study, what with the two printers, boxes of monitors and other electronics that sit there idle and useless, waiting for the thrift store under construction nearby to open so I can drop them off. It would be neat, however. . . <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dIHgTYHJHcM/WfFl6__CH1I/AAAAAAAAGa8/8Q4DCgc6GN0spPdVrzayoGUEzGrtEnIxQCEwYBhgL/s1600/it%2Bis%2Bvery%2Bneat.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="266" data-original-width="900" height="188" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dIHgTYHJHcM/WfFl6__CH1I/AAAAAAAAGa8/8Q4DCgc6GN0spPdVrzayoGUEzGrtEnIxQCEwYBhgL/s640/it%2Bis%2Bvery%2Bneat.gif" width="640" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">And, yes, I should be backing up more frequently. To my credit, I have tried.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I don’t like Dropbox because if I want to use it as backup, the item I’m backing up MYSTERIOUSLY DISAPPEARS from my computer, thus eliminating the basic tenet of a backup, which in my mind is having TWO COPES of the same thing in different places.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I use DVDs and thumb drives as <a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack">b</a>ackups, barring from my mind the HORROR stories of such media losing data over time and making your memories IRRETRIEVABLE and replacing it with mocking pictures of clowns and other such stuff.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I have hard copies of some stuff, but then I’m back to the storage problems that made scanning and chucking the paper copies such an attractive idea in the first place.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal">It’s also possible I have backups of much of my stuff on the kids’ computer in the kitchen, as that used to be my computer and is still reliably churning away, although the computer I have which is broken is a lot younger than the kids’ computer is.<o:p></o:p></div>Mister Fweemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10339287419996343926noreply@blogger.com0